Here

I have fallen

into the boundless now—

being here, not elsewhere—

gazing out an open window:

fuchsia-colored bougainvillea,

adobe wall,

light reflecting heavenward

from the silver underside of tepozán leaves.

I enter the sunlight’s luster

spreading across the garden,

revealing thick nopal paddles,

the pale green lace of mesquite,

treading barefoot,

soles connecting with the earth’s contour,

each step a quiet planting—

here.

I am transfixed—

overtaken, pierced beyond time and place.

I have become sister

to all women who have paused—

only to enter everything.

Entering the land of saints,

and those who walked 

on the edge beyond thought,

shedding all names

like leaves falling into emptiness.

I hold my heart

as I rock side to side,

ground entering the soles of my feet.

Soft earth and stillness rocking,

soft earth and stillness rocking—

into the hidden light,

always present.

Upon the adobe wall,

an eternity of blooms

unfolding quietly—

each petal a galaxy,

beheld by space itself.

I have not seen

so simply,

so deeply,

since I was a child.

There is no place to go.

The layers to arrive

have fallen away.

I am here

in a place so intimate,

so exquisite, precise—

where all things breathe

beyond all things.

Here.

—Lorena Wolfman (2021, 2025)